Steele halted, jerked from his pleasant contemplation by sight of a lounging figure before the doorway. He blinked, shocked and startled.
There was no doubt about it. That was Orin Locke, waiting with arms folded across his chest rather than hanging at his sides; arms which were neither shattered nor bloody. He did not have the appearance of a sick man, and the look on his face was a warning.
"Did you want something, Steele?" he asked, and took a slow step forward.
Steele blinked again, not believing the evidence of his eyes. His question proclaimed that he was badly rattled. "What the devil are you doing here?"
The answer was chilling. "I'm here to kill you, Steele."
The others were watching warily, Big Mule with renewed interest. Suddenly he guffawed. "That whiskey sure done you some good, didn't it, Locke?" he chortled. "Gran' ol' dishwasher!"
Though at a loss to understand, Steele was beginning to get a grip on himself. It was clear that Locke was still dangerous, a factor to be reckoned with. But appearances were deceptive. If it came to a showdown, Locke could do no more than bluff. The reflection was reassuring.
Likewise, Steele had men to back him, and people were watching, though keeping at a discreet distance. His prestige in the community demanded that he go through with this, finish what he had started.
"I don't want to kill you, Locke." He shrugged. "I tried to make that plain. But I'm here in my official capacity, so stand to the side."
Locke did not move. "I don't like killing," he returned. "If there was any other way, I'd take it. But it's you or me, Steele—and you're here to murder a sick man who can't help himself. After I've settled with you, I'll tell the folks of the community of the part you've been playing—how you and Cable appointed me sheriff—"
Steele clutched eagerly at that straw. "Sure we appointed you," he interrupted. "But when we found that you were a crook, I kicked you off the job."
"You mean when you found that I wouldn't do your dirty work," Locke corrected him. "You've played a smooth game, Steele, up to and including having Cable murdered, because you were afraid of him. But I can prove that you're the leader of the outlaws in this section of the country—"
He got no farther. Steele had listened in mounting alarm and rage, curiously reluctant to come to grips with this man who should be dead, or nearly so. It seemed that he faced something bigger than a man, which it would be folly to battle. Yet he had to act, or Locke would reveal such damaging truths that no one would doubt his guilt.
Steele tried again to reassure himself, to remember what had happened to Locke and that this was a bluff; it could be nothing more. He flung himself to the side, half-turning, his hand stabbing for his gun. His nerves were ragged and he was off-balance, but he was still fast. Let any man, any whole man, match lead with him!
He was in the middle of his draw, his gun barely clear of leather, when a bullet drove him back, hitting his chest like the smash of a grizzly's paw. Locke's arms were no longer folded; he had a gun in each hand, one of them smoking. As Steele faltered and tried to lift his own weapon higher, a second blow pounded him around in a half-turn. He wavered, fell, and seemed to grovel in the dust. Locke's voice rose sharply above the echo of gunfire.
"Reach, the rest of you! Fletcher, lift their hardware," he added, and watched in silence while his order was carried out. Even Big Mule was too awed to offer resistance.
"And now git!" Locke snapped. "It's the law speaking. If any of you who've been taking Steele's orders are still in town tomorrow, or ever again, it'll be too bad for you."
He became vaguely aware that Bannon was beside him, that a pile of guns had been tossed at his feet, that the doctor's arm was thrown behind his shoulders.
"It's a clean-up, Orin." The doctor chuckled. "Complete, finished, should you ask me! Folks don't require any explanation, for they already know plenty. And after the job you've just done, why, hanged if I won't have to revise my whole opinion of my career! You're a patient that I'm so proud of I could blubber!"
Then, being first and last a doctor, he looked keenly at his friend, knowing his weariness and strain, and turned as the door opened behind them.
"Let's go inside," he said. "There are those here who wish to see you!"
Bannon's words were no overstatement. Ginny was holding the door wide, waiting for him, and in her eyes was welcome, along with other emotions which caused them to swim with unshed tears.
Locke found himself alone with her in the kitchen, Bannon having gone on to the sick room. At what he saw in Ginny's eyes, Orin knew a deep contentment, a sense of homecoming which had been long absent.
"Ginny!" he said, and reached out hungry arms. Ginny came to their shelter without hesitation.
After a moment she raised her head, a puzzled look in her eyes. "Oh, Orin," she murmured, "your poor arms! I heard something about them. Still you seem to be able to use them all right!"
He was a little puzzled, but it did not matter. The things which did matter were clear enough, and Fletcher Bannon would take care of the rest.
Presently, with a discreet cough, the doctor appeared in the doorway.
"If you can spare a little time, there are others who would like to see you," he suggested. "After that, you're going back to my place and to bed. As a doctor, I'm more pleased to have my theory so well verified, but as a plodding medico, I know that flesh should not be subjected to too great an ordeal. Here he is, Ray."
Ray Locke was conscious and, for the first time since suffering his own wounds, in reasonably good condition. His fever had abated, and there was a rational look in his eyes. Reta stood at the far side of the bed, holding fast to one of his hands. To Locke's amazement, Ray's eyes were almost pleading.
"Luckily, he wasn't set back by last night's jaunt," Bannon explained. "Now he wants to talk to you, Orin, which is fine. But not for long, for he's still far from well."
Ray's voice was barely above a whisper. "Reta's told me—what you did," he managed. "I want to beg your pardon, Orin—to ask your forgiveness. I've been—such a fool—"
"Everything's going to be all right now, Ray," Locke retorted. "Don't let past mistakes worry you. Just get well —for my sake, and Reta's."
"When you put it that way—I sure intend to," Ray promised. His look at Reta sent the color flooding into cheeks which had been more than usually pale. Presently all of them left Ray, returning to the other room. Reta was as mystified as she was pleased.
"Ray is so changed since he became better, Doctor." She frowned. "I've always liked him, but now he's so much more—well, the sort of man that I'd wished he could become, the sort that I always thought he might be." She looked about, confused, groping for an explanation, and her eyes fixed on Locke. "So much more like Orin," she finished.
Bannon nodded placidly. "You'll find him a changed man from now on," he assured her. "It was as I'd long suspected, observing him, remembering how different he had been as a boy. You thought it was bad Levering blood cropping out in him, Orin, but it wasn't that. And though I hate to say anything reflecting on a fellow practitioner —still, we all make mistakes."
"The plain truth of the matter is that when Ray was in that accident, back before you left the country, Orin, he was hurt worse than he or Emery ever guessed. He was thrown, falling on his head, and he suffered an injury to his skull. That caused a slight pressure of the bone on a certain area of the brain—I'll not go into the technical details, but what it means is that the continuing pressure affected him. It did so to the point where it not only changed his disposition, but also induced criminal tendencies. I had suspected something of the sort, and when he was so battered in that fight the other night and I was called in, I verified my suspicions."
Bannon cleared his throat. "To correct such a condition required a delicate operation, one that is sometimes dangerous. But once I was considered a good surgeon, and since he was unconscious, I decided that it would be better to risk a complete cure instead of half a one. I operated to relieve the pressure. You can already see the effect, for he has been restored to his normal self. He'll be a real Locke from now on, and a husband, Miss Reta, of whom you can be proud."
"That's wonderful," Locke said, amazed. "And you, old friend, are a success in your career. You can be doubly proud."
"Well, I feel more like a man than I have for quite a while," Bannon conceded. "And that's a fact."
Reta was twisting her hands in her apron. With a doctor's practised eye, Bannon noted it.
"I'm going to give you something so that you'll get a good sleep, Reta," he said. "This has been a rough ordeal, especially the news about your father. But there is better ahead."
Reta raised a strained, tormented face to him. "That's bad—Dad being killed," she said. "Yet in a way, I'm almost glad. This way—he's safe."
"Safe? What do you mean?" Bannon questioned.
"I mean—he and Steele were partners," Reta explained. "I think that Orin knew it. I didn't, not till last night, though I'd had some dreadful suspicions. But last night, knowing that you'd probably be coming back for me, Orin, I was afraid of what might happen at the ranch, with almost everybody gone. So I took some of Dad's valuable papers."
She was silent, still twisting her apron, fighting for composure. Then she went on.
"I'd never seen any of them before—and I didn't intend to look then, only just enough to be sure that I got what should be kept safe. But there was something on one, something I couldn't help noticing—and that made me look at the others." She drew an unsteady breath, her face as white as milk.
"I knew then what he'd been doing. And the worst of it, Orin—and you too, Ginny—is that it was all a steal —the Three Sevens as well as other things. There never was a mortgage on the ranch; that was all faked. He was a thief, and I—he was still my father. Now you'll all hate me—Ray won't want me when he knows—"
"I do want you," Ray's voice came from the other room in stout contradiction. "There's nothing wrong with
your
record, sweetheart, which is more than can be said for mine. And I know how people sometimes get off on the wrong trail—"
"Of course. And nobody will hate you," Locke cut in. "I'll be mighty proud of my sister-in-law, Reta. And if it will make you feel better, as it should, I can tell you that your father was killed because he'd decided to break with Steele and go straight, and Steele knew it."
"Knowing that does help," Reta conceded. "But that's not all. The Three Sevens belongs to you, Ginny. It always has. I'll see that you get it back."
Ginny hesitated, looking at Locke. Reading what was in his eyes, she nodded.
"If that's the way you want it, Reta," she agreed. "Orin and I will have the Three Sevens, and you and Ray the Wagon Wheel. It will work out nicely."
Reta had not thought that far ahead, but had to agree. It would work out nicely. It was sunset outside, but across the west was a glow of promise.